


Would you be alright, with this kiss goodnight?

by Salomonderiel



Series: If I Give You Time, Will You Teach Me? [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 13:32:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salomonderiel/pseuds/Salomonderiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <blockquote>
  <p><br/>He’d kissed him. Tony had kissed him.<br/>Things like that weren’t meant to happen. It was – it was wrong. Disgusting. Unnatural, abhorred, immoral, it was, it was –<br/><em>It was everything he’d ever dreamed of. </em><br/></p>
</blockquote><p>Steve was brought up in a world where a man loved a woman. There wasn't another option. There <em>couldn't</em> be. So it's hard to equate what he feels for Tony Stark with anything but the horror he was taught to feel. </p>
<p>As requested, a Steve's POV to 'I'm afraid I can't keep my promise, or even try my best'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Would you be alright, with this kiss goodnight?

**Author's Note:**

> I LOVE EVERYONE IN THIS BAR.  
> Genuinely. Response for the previous piece: asdfghjgfgfwefv I can't thank you all enough.  
> Several people said they'd like to see Steve's POV, and I kinda wanted to write it, myself. So I did. A bit longer than the other piece, as more happens to poor old Steve.  
> Title, because I'm an unimaginative sod when it comes to titles, is adapted from Lady Antebellum's 'Just A Kiss'.  
> There will be more in this series, hopefully.

He hadn’t had a plan when he’d started running. He hadn’t had a destination, only a fear, desperation. He’d moved on instinct, trying to escape something that, if he’d stopped to think, he’d have realised couldn’t be left behind.

After all, he could still feel the imprint of it on his lips.

He wanted to run until the thud of his feet where the only sound his mind could hear. Until his muscles screamed and his legs collapsed beneath him. Until his lungs tore, until New York was miles behind him, the memories, the _people_.

Perhaps, his desperation told him, if he ran fast enough, far enough – perhaps it might never have happened.

The rhythm his feet made on the sidewalk was constant, regular, endless. Each impact shook through him, pulling the air from his lungs, before he pushed himself forwards and breathed in again. It was familiarity, comforting pattern. He tried to focus on it, on the movement his muscles made, counting his breathing.

But all he could think about, all he could _feel_ was... was Tony.

And it hurt. _Fuck_ how it hurt.

A foot slipped and he fell forwards, twisting, and slammed against the wall. He let gravity take him – let himself fall to the ground, and the brickwork scraped at his shoulder, his palms, forehead, tearing at his skin.

He hit the ground, and stayed there.

For a few seconds he just panted, trying to get his breath back. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t open his mouth, couldn’t breathe in, and it hurt, hurt so much to simply _breathe_ with each intake of air catching in his throat, tearing it, and a chest so cold, so crushed, ribs that couldn’t move and a stomach that felt bruised, kicked and broken –

It was minutes (hours, days) before he realised. Before it struck him that he wasn’t breathing, wasn’t _panting_. He was crying.

Unable to stop himself, unable to deny it anymore he opened his mouth and screamed. His hands grabbed at his jacket, at the collar, twisting and pulling and knotting his hands into the tough fabric. But it didn’t work, didn’t _work_ he could still _feel it_ as he sobbed, as his head fell forwards, chin slamming against his chest again and again his hands grabbed his hair, tugging at it, fingers slipping and wrenching at clumps of hair, desperate for the pain, for something real, something he could _feel_ , to distract himself, to stop him feeling the hammer shattering his chest, the knots in his gut, the screaming in his head.

It couldn’t work. It was never _going_ to work. Because as he keened, as he rocked and slammed against the wall and pulled his hair out, blinded by tears and blood seeping from his grazes, all he could cry out was his name.

He didn’t know if he was mourning, lamenting, apologising. All he knew was that he was saying his name. That he felt like he wouldn’t be able to keep a hold on who he was if he didn’t.

When the grazes healed, when the blood stopped flowing, he dug his nails into his skin and pulled it open again.

 

*

 

He couldn’t have told you how long it was before he could finally breathe without weeping. The pain hadn’t stopped – god, no, that was still there, still as strong as ever – but he wasn’t crying. His eyes were dry, cold, empty.

With the first true deep breath, his fingers stopped tearing. He stopped shaking, head resting against the rise and fall of his chest, and his eyes stayed pressed shut. He opened his mouth, slightly, loosely, and breathed out. Then in again. Ten times, he counted his breath, each intake.

When he could breathe normally without having to focus, he uncurled his hands and sighed out, forcing the air out through his lips, and let his head fall back against the bricks. He didn’t let his eyes close –he was far too scared to do that – but focused on the moon. It was barely even there, just a thin sliver of silver, cut through the blackness of the sky.

Involuntarily, unwilled, his hand lift, and his fingers traced his lips.

He’d kissed him. Tony had kissed him.

Things like that weren’t meant to _happen_. It was – it was _wrong._ Disgusting. Unnatural, abhorred, immoral, it was, it was –

_It was everything he’d ever dreamed of._

It was everything he’d ever had nightmares about. That was what it was.

No matter what it was, it didn’t happen. He’d never been able to let it happen, never been able to let himself hope of anything like that happening, ever. He’d seen what happened to men like _that_. The torture they went through to be made _normal_ again. That their friends and families would make them suffer through, to turn them back, to reverse the affect of what had ‘turned them’.

It had been one of the most terrifying days of his life when Steve had realised that men like _that_ , were men like _him_.

Though that hadn’t been as bad as the night he’d realised how he felt about Tony. He’d thought he’d been safe, with Peggy, after Peggy. He’d _liked_ her, he had. He thought he’d been cured.

But then there was Tony. Stubborn, selfish, _genius_ billionaire playboy philanthropist. And any safety Steve had clung to had gone down the drain – along with everything he’d eaten the day before. He’d spent that night clinging to the ceramic basin of the toilet, forehead pressed to it, the disgust and self-loathing stirring his stomach until there was nothing left in it.

By sunlight, he’d managed to convince himself that he could still continue to be – _pretend_ to be, he’d amended to himself – _pretend_ to be the icon for America. He could step into the helicarrier, face the team, give orders, joke, smile.

He hadn’t meant to go out drinking with Tony again. He’d told himself that had to stop.

But then Tony had asked again, and he’s smiled, and he’d seemed so _happy_ about it _..._

The smile had slipped onto Steve’s face before he could stop it, and Tony grinned and grabbed his arm, dragging him from the house and throwing his jacket at him. Steve went without protest, like the fool he was.

But in all his – he’d never imagined – he hadn’t _planned_ for this!

...he didn’t know what to do.

His head slammed back into the brick wall again, reflex reaction to the pain swelling in his chest.

Tony was the third kiss he’d ever had.

Perhaps he could find Tony in the morning – _late_ in the morning – the day after tomorrow – and just tell him they –

Did he really, truly think he’d ever be able to speak to Tony about that? Somehow, going by the ice sliding beneath his skin at the very idea, he doubted it. The idea of standing before Tony, of having to look at him, his lips... Would Tony even want to see him? Steve knew what he’d said, how he’d _insulted_ Tony, because the words were still echoing back at him, now with a sense of guilt to add to the hatred and disgust. He’d have lost Tony for good. He’d never be able to speak to him, again, see him smile, hear him laugh and witter, shoulders knocking, sit beside him as they drank – and, oh _god_ , he’s lost it, lost it all...

His heart started to hurt, a physical pain of the force of it pulsing fiercely, terrified, tight in his chest.

He closed his eyes again, and leant back, hands resting on the ground limply. Perhaps he could stay here, forever. They’d never find him. He’d just be a guy, on a street corner. New York had enough of them.

There was a safety in not moving.

...but slowly, a feeling of duty slipped into his thoughts. Whether he deserved it or not, he was an Avenger, their Captain. He couldn’t sit here. He couldn’t.

His fingers unclenched, nails scraping across the sidewalk until his hands were flat on the floor. Then, with a sharp breath in, he pushed himself onto his feet. For a second he stood there, swaying slightly, the sudden rise going to his head. But after another deep breath, he shook his head, and began to put one foot in front of the other.

 

*

 

He didn’t have his keys on him, he realised, as he got to the front door of the Tower. He never took his keys with him, Tony did.

Swearing lightly under his breath, he rest his forehead against the door, having to try and stop the panic attack before it fully hit for the countless time. It was good practise, he supposed, lips twisting in dark humour.

Deep breath, and he stepped back, straightening his shoulders. He wasn’t going to ring the bell, or knock. He couldn’t face anyone right then. He didn’t know if he would have got back before him, have told them – told them what _Steve_ had –

He breathed in sharply, closing his eyes to stop that thought in its tracks. He was getting better with the disgust, but he couldn’t deal with the guilt too, and certainly not on the doorstep.

When he felt he could speak with a level voice, he looked up, straight into the security camera above the door. “JARVIS, you there?” he asked. His voice was rough, quieter than he’d wanted it.

“It’s good to see you, Captain,” the mechanical voice replied almost immediately. There was a tone of relief in its voice.

Normally, Steve would have stopped to ask why. But he didn’t have time for, for other people’s _shit_ just then. “Can you open the door for me, please, JARVIS. I left my keys behind.”

“Of course, Captain.”

A soft clunk, and the door unlocked, swinging outwards slightly. Back straight, shoulders braced, and face down, Steve pulled it open and stepped inside. He turned around to pull the door shut behind himself, focusing on each movement he made. Whole palm wrapped around the handle. Pull arm back to close door. Turn hand to lock the door. No matter how long he took doing it, though, he would always reach the stage where he had no choice but to face the room at some point.

He turned around, mind set on getting to his room.

He didn’t make it one step.

As soon as he was facing away from the door, a fist slammed into his face, knocking his head back and making him lose balance. Pain shot through his head, and his vision blacked out for a second as he fell back against the wall, legs shaking, feet shifting to try and stay upright, hands rising on reflex to check for blood and broken bones in his nose.

“What did you do, you bastard, what did you _do?”_

“Clint-”

“No, I’m sorry, it had to have been him, you _saw_ Tony, don’t try and tell me-”

Something else collided with his stomach, a fist or a foot, Steve was past being able to tell the difference. He just recognized the overwhelming pain, the way he suddenly had no air inside him, and the feeling of everything he’d eaten trying to shoot backup his throat. He curled over, arms tightening around himself, eyes clenched shut and watering.

“What did you _DO?”_

“Thor, Natasha, someone get over here – Clint, _no!”_

“What’s he – Steve, are you-”

“Let me _go!”_

“Clint, I swear to _god_ , if you don’t stop-”

“Thor, so help me, let my arm go or I’ll – _fuck,_ Rodgers, you bastard, what did you _do to him!?”_

It was too much, all of it. The now familiar disgust and guilt already pushing through the surface, and now the fists of his own friends on him, and they’d seen Tony, and they – they –

As the words and swearing and roars of the fight going on a few centimetres from him echoed in his ears, Steve clenched his eyes shut against the tears trying to come through and fell to the floor. He could hear Thor grunt as he held back the archer, Coulson still trying to reason with him, calm him down, but more than that he could hear every word Clint yelled at him, each one worse than the punch or the kick, pulling the hatred and guilt and terror from his skin until he couldn’t argue back, couldn’t be the strong one anymore. “I don’t know,” he said, voice shaking, quiet beneath his tears and his hands shaking against his chest. “I don’t know, I don’t ... _know...”_

“What do you _mean,_ you _don’t know_ , you _fucker-”_

“Agent Barton, I know your IQ isn’t exactly Harvard standard, but I think even _you_ can understand ‘I don’t know’!” Coulson wasn’t speaking as a friend, a team mate. “You use them often enough!” His voice was sharp, demanding silence. He got it.

No one was struggling any more. Clint was panting, that was it, the only sound aside from Steve’s own fear, shaking breaths and tears from him.

“Thor, take Barton back to sofa, and make him sit there,” Coulson continued, “Natasha, watch him. And someone call Pepper again – tell her that we’ve got Steve.”

Steve still didn’t move, as Thor’s footsteps quietened, as he heard Bruce muttering in the background, someone dialling on a phone. When Coulson set a hand on his shoulder – he assumed it was Coulson, everyone else had left him – he couldn’t stop himself flinching.

“Not that I can give you orders, of course, Steve,” he said, voice back to being soft, careful, “I wouldn’t dream of it – but perhaps you’d like to move to somewhere more comfortable?”

Steve didn’t move, and Coulson didn’t either. As Steve just sat there and thought, tried to, tried to figure out _what_ he was thinking, through the pain, he felt Coulson’s hand stay where it was. He was grateful for that small gesture, in a way. Eventually, he lifted his head, eyes open, only to stare blankly at the wooden floor. “Is Tony here?” he asked.

“No,” Coulson said, voice clear of any emotion, save for his usual calmness.

Steve nodded, head moving slowly. Then he pushed himself off the floor, back to his feet. Coulson was smiling at him softly, hand still on his shoulder. “Do you think you can tell us what happened?” he asked. He had no expectation in his eyes, no pity, no hatred.

So Tony hadn’t told them.

“You’ll look at me differently,” Steve said. Stated – it was a fact, after all.

Coulson didn’t answer that – Bruce did, setting the phone back on its stand. “Probably,” he admitted, hands loosely hanging from the pockets of his slacks, lips tilted with irony, “But we could never think bad of you, Steve. It’s not possible. Trust me, many have tried. And we will _always_ give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“And ignore Clint, it’s his time of the month,” Natasha said, looking coolly at the archer in question.

Whilst a few others chuckled, Steve didn’t respond. “I don’t want you to think worse of Tony, either,” he said, looking at each of them for some sign of a promise.

When he looked at Coulson, the agent smiled wryly. “Trust me, _that_ is _definitely_ impossible,” he said.

“You have our word, my brother, and our support,” Thor said. He wasn’t grinning, wasn’t booming, was just as calm as everyone else.

Everyone save Clint, but when Steve risked a look at him, he didn’t see the rage from earlier. He saw annoyance, sure, but there was also curiosity – also, god help him, pity.

“Tony kissed me.”

His words didn’t quite get the reaction he was expecting. No one gasped, no one swore. No one even _moved_. They just stood there, or sat there, whichever, as if waiting for Steve to keep going.

“And?” Clint asked eventually, eyebrows raised.

“ _And?”_ Steve echoed, shock destroying any filter between his thoughts and his mouth. “Isn’t that enough? Tony _kissed_ me! He – we’re _men!_ It’s wrong! Isn’t it? Disgusting!”

He’d barely finished speaking when Natasha and Clint moved simultaneously; Clint to stand up, Natasha to hold him down. Steve had stepped back before he’d even registered the movement.

“Did you tell him that, Steve?” Bruce asked, voice low.

Words were stuck in his throat. It was all Steve could do to take his eyes from Clint, from the fury burning in his stare, to look across at Bruce and move his muscles enough to nod. He couldn’t swallow. He couldn’t do anything.

Bruce swore, and Steve watched as he and Coulson met each other’s gaze. An understanding passed between them. “I’ll tell Pepper,” Coulson said, pulling his mobile from his pocket and turning away. Steve tried to meet his eyes, to ask for help, for the agent to explain, make everything better – but for the first time, possibly ever, Coulson wasn’t looking at him, in a way that left no doubt that the avoidance was on purpose. Fear starting to leak through, Steve looked back to Bruce at the same time the scientist returned the gaze.

“It’s not 1940 anymore, Steve,” he said, and the disappointment in his tone hurt more than any rage. “You can’t say things like that nowadays. It’s not right. _Especially_ not to someone who’s meant to be your best friend.”

He started to shake.

“Did anyone bother to give him the LGBT speech after he was unfrozen?” Natasha asked, looking across to Coulson, who, phone pressed to his ear, and mouth tight, shook his head. She rolled her eyes.

“It’s not classed as a mental disorder anymore,” Bruce said. He spoke softly, slowly, as if he knew the impact the words would have on Steve. But he was smiling. Like it was good news. _How did he think it was good news?_

Because what he was saying was making everything Steve had said to Tony ten times worse.

“It’s considered as normal. Hey, two men can even get married in New York these days, and in other states too!” Bruce was still going, still sounding so _happy_. “And thanks to shows like ‘Will and Grace’, men like Neil Patrick Harris, more men are coming out as gay, too-”

“Coulson’s gay,” Natasha added. Shocked, Steve turned to look at the agent, who now had his back to them, talking quietly into the phone. “Doesn’t go showing it off, but doesn’t deny it, either.”

“I’m bi,” Clint added casually. Steve wasn’t the only one who turned to look at him.

“Really?” Bruce asked, sounding slightly surprised.

Clint shrugged. “Hey, I don’t like to discriminate. Seems like a waste.”

“We do not ‘discriminate’ in Asgard, either,” Thor put in.

Steve heard Bruce’s surprised huff of air, his mutter of, “The more you know.” He didn’t pay attention, though, didn’t listen as he launched into more examples and reasons for why it was acceptable, normal...

His legs barely carried him to the nearest chair, the corner of a sofa, before he collapsed, face buried in his hands. “What have I done,” he breathed. Bruce fell silent, mid-sentence.  

Deep breaths. He was getting good at this, at pushing the panic back.

As his hands stopped shaking, and everything he’d just heard sunk into him, he, slowly, found himself being filled with a new sense of resolution.

It’s a brave new world, right? Seems like he has no reason to fear anymore.

Raising his head, he straightened up and looked directly at Clint. “I’m sorry,” he said, trying to make sure the sincerity of his words was clear. “I know that I can’t claim ignorance as an excuse, but when you’ve been living in fear, and that fear sticks its lips against yours, it’s kinda hard to think rationally. I promise you, you won’t hear me say anything like that again.” Clint nodded back stiffly, which Steve took as the best he was going to get for a while. Scanning the whole group, Steve steeled himself, and asked, voice calm, clear, “Where’s Tony?”

“He left,” a voice behind him said. Coulson was back, holding his mobile lightly, fiddling with it. “Just over half an hour ago, now. Didn’t say a word, just grabbed a bag, grabbed a car and left. Pepper tried calling him just now, and he picked up, but didn’t speak.”

He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, waiting for him to flip out again, to start shaking again.

He wasn’t going to do that, not anymore.

Because, suddenly, this didn’t all have to end in tears. Not if Steve could help it.

“He took a car?” he checked.

Everyone nodded, Clint said “Yep.”

“JARVIS, can you track the car?”

“I could, sir – but I’m afraid Mr Stark is not permitting me to do so.”

“So he could be anywhere,” Steve muttered. He couldn’t think what to do, how could they... he rubbed his face once, then straightened himself up again. “Perhaps if we just... keep calling him. Give it a few minutes, and, and Nat or someone can call him. Yeah, let’s start with Nat. That sound okay?”

He hadn’t needed confirmation for one of his orders, not truly, for years. But he couldn’t deny how reassuring it was to see everyone nod, to see Coulson and Bruce smile at him. He breathed out, and slid back into the upholstery. Slowly, everyone else started to move around him. He closed his eyes, and tried to prepare himself.

Something was telling him, this wasn’t going to be an easy night.

 

*

 

Natasha took the phone from Coulson twenty minutes later. She called – he didn’t pick up. Steve stayed where he was, eyes still firmly closed, listening to the message she left. She was phrasing it carefully, just asking if he was okay, that they all wanted to hear from him. She hung up, and shared a muted conversation with Coulson.

Steve tried not to listen. He didn’t want to know what they were thinking, he could think it well enough.

Tony wasn’t – never had been – the most emotionally stable. Low self confidence and huge ego, a bad combination that led to a lot of drunken nights. And rash. Very, very rash.

It terrified him to imagine what Tony might do.

Instead, he let himself sit there, and finally think what he could do – what he could say – what _they_ could do, if Tony got back.

The hope made him smile.

 

*

 

But then Tony didn’t pick up when Coulson called (Coulson said he hadn’t expected him to, Tony never answered calls from him – that wasn’t any reassurance).

Pepper called, saying she’d got Rhodey to try and call him. Tony hadn’t picked up for him, either.

That was a hard blow. Rhodey was his best mate, had no connection to the avengers, Tony couldn’t even have known that the call was connected to _all this_.

But he hadn’t picked up.

Steve had to sit there as Clint grabbed the phone – now three hours after Tony had left – and muttered that he’s going to try a new tactic. No one’s surprised any more when Tony doesn’t pick up, but Clint didn’t seem to care. He waited for the beep, and Steve could hear him pacing, before he starts to yell.

It isn’t a put-on anger, and that made it worse when Steve listened to the streams of threats coming out of the archer’s mouth, aimed at him. It’s a different tactic, certainly. But he knew – as instinctively as he knows himself – that it’s not one Tony’s going to go for. Tony wouldn’t have run from the team due to anger at Steve. Anger would have led to a fight, to Tony yelling and trying to knock Steve out – and right now, Steve would have let him.

Clint’s yelling was helping only himself.

It didn’t stop Thor from trying it, too, though, after him. That didn’t hurt as much. It was clear Thor didn’t mean it, or at least, not as much as Clint’s had. He didn’t dwell long hatred, though. He soon drifted onto some long anecdotal story from Asgard.

Steve wanted to shut him up, shake him, slap him, tell him that _no one cared_ when Tony -

A hand touched his shoulder. Steve’s eye flew open to see Clint moving to sit on the table in front of him. “Hey,” Clint said, sounding as blunt and brash as usual.

Part of Steve wanted to tell him to sit on a proper chair, that he was probably damaging the table.

Which was ridiculous.

“Hey,” Steve said back. He didn’t know what Clint was here for. He’d heard the insults clearly enough.

“Sorry, man.”

He hadn’t been expecting that.

“You’re a bit of a dick,” Clint continued, regardless, lounging calmly on the table like he wasn’t ruining Steve’s confidence with every word, “but you’re, yanno, you, so it’s kind of impossible to hate you. I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt and accept that you said what you said cos of the era differences, and that you don’t mean it. You’re clean in my books. But, mate, it’s gonna take a whole lot more to be clean in Tony’s. He cares about you, like, _a lot_ – we could all see that! And what he’s doing now?” Clint lent forwards, and pointed at Steve. “It’s on your head. Do you get that?”

How did he answer that? How could he say, simply, how much it terrified him, how much he hated himself for being – for it all being _his fault_ – but he could see it, in how Clint’s face softened, that it was clear enough on his face. “Believe me, I get it,” Steve said, voice as rough and quiet as he’d expected it to be.

Clint nodded, opened his mouth to say something else.

“He still not replied?”

Bruce’s question, loud in a previously quiet room, shut Clint up before he’d even spoken, and both of them turned round to see Bruce frowning at his own phone.

“No,” Natasha told him. She was trying to keep her voice down, showing less subtlety than usual as her eyes flickered over to Steve. “It’s – it’s been seven hours.”

Bruce nodded, slowly. Then he pressed speed-dial, and held the phone to his ear. Unlike the others, he didn’t move as he waited, didn’t pace or wander, but stayed where he was, perfectly still. Everyone heard Tony’s voicemail, the beep. Then Bruce started talking.

“Hey, Tony, it’s Bruce Banner here. As I’m sure you’ve gathered, we’re all at the Tower, and we’re all worried for you. You’re not picking up or replying, and people are starting to get nervous. Look, I can understand if you don’t want to speak to anyone. I can understand that perfectly. But please come back and speak to us later. Don’t leave us... if you get my meaning. It’s easy to do something rash when you’re upset, _really_ upset, but it isn’t everything, Tony. We’ve all got something good here, don’t let it go because of one slip up. Right now, I’m grateful the other guy spat that bullet out – I’m just, I guess I’m just asking you not to do something as equally regrettable-”

The meaning behind what Bruce was saying hit Steve like a sledgehammer to his chest. His heart stopped, he couldn’t feel it beating, and his chest wouldn’t move, he couldn’t _breathe_ –

He dragged himself to his feet, grabbing the other chair, pushing from the arm rest, grabbing Clint, anything to get up and get _out_ and once he was up he ran, full out ran from the room – from where Bruce was warning Tony about _suicide_.

He couldn’t hear that.

Someone – some several, more accurately, by the sound of it – were following him, jogging to see where he went, so he didn’t close his door behind him. He didn’t need to avoid them, he just... needed out.

He spun around when he’d reached the distant safety of his room, to see Clint and Coulson. “Could he do that?” he asked, panting, eyes hurting with the pain of holding back tears. “Could I – could I have drive him to _that?_ You said, you said,” he said, waving a hand at Clint, looking at him desperately, as if for a contradiction, begging either of them for a contradiction, comfort, “You said that what he was doing now I’d have driven him to-”

“Not to that,” Clint cut in, stepping forwards and taking Steve’s hand. Coulson was frowning at them, his own tie loose, hair messed up. “That wouldn’t be on you.”

“Clint’s right, for someone to go that extreme wouldn’t be from just one thing. It’d have been dwelling on him for a while,” Coulson added, stepping up beside Clint.

His hand was tightening on Clint’s, he knew, but the archer wasn’t complaining. Knowing they were waiting for a reaction, he nodded, but it was too fast to be real. “I don’t know where he is, what he’s doing, how he’s feeling, and – it _scares_ me,” he said quietly. “It terrifies me. I need to know he’s okay.”

He didn’t miss the glance Coulson and Clint shared.

“I think you need to call him,” Coulson said, softly, after a while.

Steve was shaking his head without thinking. “No. No, he wouldn’t pick up from me, he probably doesn’t even want reminding I exist-”

“ _Steven Rodgers_ ,” Clint said, sounding exasperated, eyes rolling – but he kept his hand in Steve’s. “It’s five-thirty in the morning. He hasn’t answered to anyone else. There isn’t really anything else we can do just yet, so please, call him, and then let’s all get some sleep, okay? And believe me – what you said just now? _That_ he wants to hear.”

As Steve stood there, thinking, not wanting to have to decide either way, Coulson stepped around his bed to his table, and picked up Steve’s mobile. “Heads up,” he said calmly, before throwing it across. Steve caught it on reflex.

“Just get it done, mate,” Clint said softly.

He hesitated for a second, before sliding the phone open and pressing speed dial one. He waited as it rang out, as it reached Tony’s snarky voicemail, the beep.

“I-” how did he say this? With a groan, he turned from Clint and Coulson, and swore, saying what came into his head. He couldn’t make this any worse, after all. “Fuck this, Tony, come home. I need to apologise, to explain - I messed up, and I need you here, because - you off - and I'm so wo- so, _worried_ about you and it hurts - come home.” He swallowed, head falling onto his chest, eyes falling closed. The silence on the other end of the line was deafening.

It doesn’t have to end it tears, he’d thought earlier. It was about time he actually acted on that thought. “Tony, I love you, come home.” He lowered the phone, pressing the red end call button without looking.

He turned back to face the room, to see Clint gobsmacked, Coulson smiling. “Go to bed, guys,” he said calmly. Having said it aloud, he felt – lighter, certainly. To see his friends smile at him afterwards? That made him happy enough, for now. “Tell everyone else to get some rest, too. We’ll see what we can do in the morning, when we’re all refreshed.”

Smirking, Clint mock saluted. “Sir yes sir,” he said, looking across to Coulson once before leaving the room.

“Sleep well, Captain,” Coulson said, still smiling.

“Coulson, I’m-”

“In the clear,” Coulson cut in. “See you tomorrow.” He, too, saluted before leaving. Not seriously – but still, not quite as mocking as Clint’s had been.

Now moving purely on autopilot, he went into the en suite and washed. He changed into his pyjamas, and climbed into bed.

His eyes didn’t close for a while. When they do, he doesn’t dream.

 

*

 

He’s woken by Jarvis softly saying his name. “Captain?”

“Mmm?”

“I thought you might like to know, sir. Mr Stark is on his way home.”

Steve jumped upright, having to grab at the sheet to stop himself falling off the bed.

“Also thought you might like to know that he asked me to save your voicemail to the _permanent_ hard drive.”

Steve grins. He falls back onto the bed, rolls onto his front, and laughs into his pillow.

 

*

 

He’s surprised none of the team shot him that day. If it had been anyone else, _he_ would have. But, even whilst he was singing in the kitchen, making his lunch – or brunch, rather, as he’d got out of bed too late for breakfast – or all but skipping between rooms, laughing loudly at Friends re-runs, all he was met with was smiles.

When he’d first got out of his room, at around 11, Thor had hugged him. Everyone else had just clapped him on the back and said no more about it, but Thor had all but _strangled_ him, booming about joyous occasions.

Thinking back, it scared him how much he hadn’t _cared_.

They’d got the message from JARVIS at 08:32 that Tony had pulled into the garage. As one, everyone’s eyes turned to Steve, waiting for his reaction.

He felt fear, yeah, at the words, but – not enough to make him act on it. No, nowhere near enough.

When the door clicked open, seconds later, and Clint muttered to the group, “Evacuate. Evacuate now. I, for one, do _not_ want to see this particular sickening spectacle,” Steve just grinned.

He waited there, as they filed out.

Until it was him, and Tony.

Tony.

Oh gods, _Tony_.

He knew what he wanted to do, because the images had been haunting his whole day, but suddenly, he could see twenty thousand ways of it going wrong.

Tony was just standing there. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t speaking, but he was staring, staring at Steve with a scrutiny that made him want to blush.

It was _brilliant_.

Plucking up any courage he had left, Steve cleared his throat, and began, “Um. Um, can I - will you let me try something?”

He watched, on tenderhooks, as Tony licked his lips, mouth falling open. He barely catches the breathed response, the quiet, “Sure.”

First part, gone down well. Now – now he’s got to –

It’s harder than he’d thought it would be, lifting his foot off the floor and stepping forwards. He’s imagined all the movie scenes, but movies don’t really warn you of the fear-induced paralysis. Two steps and he stops, words flying from his mouth, “Don't move, okay? Just - don't move, let me just-” because if Tony moves and he freaks out they’ll be back at square one and Steve couldn’t deal –

“Sure,” Tony says again, and this is going good, going well, but Steve still has to force himself to step forwards, to keep going because he thinks it’d be a whole lot easier to just ignore the problem until it went away –

But he’s gone through this. He’s done all this, hoped, looked _forwards_ to this _all fucking day_ and he. Is _not_. Losing this now.

He makes the mistake of looking at Tony, at his eyes, because the darkness there, the desperation shocks him, makes him almost stumble.

He doubts his own eyes could look much better.

It’s not until he’s millimetres from him, where he can feel the heat radiating from Tony’s body, and oh god he can feel Tony’s breath, lightly brushing against his skin, that he realises this will be the first kiss he’s ever started. The first kiss he’s ever _taken_.

He’s happy it’s with Tony.

Cautiously, hoping he’s doing it right, he slips his hand around to the back of Tony’s head and pressed his lips forwards.

It’s not as rushed as his three other kisses. This time, he can think about it, savour it. His first thought it how he _missed_. He took the time, and he’s kissing the _corner_ of Tony’s mouth. But then it sinks in, that he’s kissing Tony, he’s _kissing_ him, can feel the roughness of his skin, has his _hand_ entangled in Tony’s hair, and there’s an intimacy to the kiss, a closeness, that... that feels perfect.

He’s not scared of this anymore.

He pulls back, hand still in place, and breathes out, a huff of breath that to him sounds ridiculously proud, like a kid who’s managed to ride a bike down his drive without falling over. But Tony’s smiling, so it can’t have sounded all that bad.

His aim is better the second time. He manages to catch Tony’s lips with his own, and he can feel them shift beneath his, how they change shape to slot together, and ‘like a puzzle’ is a cliché he’s heard so many times but it _fits_. _They_ fit. His hands relax, and he falls into Tony.

When a hand lands on his waist, his mouth opens with surprise – but he likes it. He likes being held, so he doesn’t move, doesn’t try to stop what’s happening, and when a tongue lightly touches at his lips he doesn’t stop that, either.

He wants to learn. He wants to know what every touch of Tony feels like. He wants to know it all. He feels the warmth of Tony’s tongue, a slight salty taste, and it all crashes onto him, what he’s doing, how _close_ he’s come, how much he now has –

And it’s too much, for then it’s too much, he can’t breathe and has to step back. Tony’s left there, mouth open, eyes wide and dark and skin flushed in the same way that Steve can feel the heat in his cheeks. Tony’s hair is standing up at the back, and Steve wants to lean over, brush it down, but his mouth is still moving of its own accord. “I - that wasn't too bad?” he finds himself asking, hope flooding him.

When Tony doesn’t reply, but just grins, he swears his heart literally swells. “Can I - is it okay if I take your hand?”

He didn’t expect that, didn’t imagine that, and it feels like something teenagers would do, young love, and it – yeah, it sounds pretty perfect. “Yes!” he says, and he _really_ hadn’t meant to sound that excited about it. Tony’s grin widens, and Steve can’t not smile as he corrects, more subdued, “Yes, course.”

Tony reaches forwards, and Steve tilts his hand, letting Tony slips their palms together. Their fingers knot, and it’s warm, and damp from sweat, and Steve decides that he’s not going to let go for the rest of the evening.

Thoughts of the evening remind him of what he had been doing, watching TV, with everyone else, and he suddenly remembers that everyone is still probably waiting outside the door, and he _knows_ they’ll be listening, intent, but it seems more polite to actually let them in than assume they’ll know. “I could - we should probably let the others back in,” he says. There’s a hope in his voice, a hope for a few more minutes of privacy, that he hadn’t planned for.

Tony looks across to the doorway separating them from the group, and then throws his head back and _laughs_. “You kidding me?” he asked, “we've got the TV to ourselves and you want to let them _back in_?” Still laughing, Tony started pull him over to the couch, grabbing the remote from the side and turning it on.

Steve doesn’t think Tony even knows what he put on – something more in Coulson’s tastes than Tony’s – but he doesn’t think Tony cares, and he doesn’t care either, because Tony is shuffling and moving _him_ until they can both lie there, together, _holding_ each other, comfortable and close.

It’s different than he’s ever had before. It’s not something he’s used to, something he’d ever dared hope for.

It is – quite simply, Steve thinks, feeling the other man, the man he fucking _loves_ , breathing against him, the stead beating of the other heart against his skin – it is _superb._

**Author's Note:**

> I did write this as a hardcore Clint/Coulson shipper, so hints of that might have come through.  
> Also aware my love for papa Coulson came through, as well as Bruce feels, and my utter addiction to fluffy endings. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
